


Pteromancy

by noiselesspatientspider (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post Reichenbach, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-28
Updated: 2012-09-28
Packaged: 2017-11-15 04:50:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/noiselesspatientspider





	Pteromancy

John’s fine. Really. 

Sherlock came back, after all. That means everything can go back to normal. Well, as normal as things get with Sherlock around.

“John! I need shoes!” Sherlock thunders, and John jumps, his teacup crashing to the floor.

“Sorry, I’ll just-” he mumbles, picking up what bits of Mrs. Hudson’s china he can reach.

He doesn’t meet Sherlock’s appraising stare. “I’m fine. Really. You just scared me.”

“You continue to reassert your well-being, although I cannot recall ever asking after it. You drop china whenever I shout, but last night when the pet shop owner shot at us, you didn’t flinch.”

“Sherlock, don’t -“

“You’re having nightmares again;there are shadows under your eyes, and you’ve been drinking twice as much tea as usual (your tea habit is frankly ridiculous, John.) But about what? You haven’t dreamed about Afghanistan in years.”

“How would you know?” John’s voice is low, dangerous. “You haven’t seen me for years.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything. Maybe in his long absence he’s developed an ability to pick up on social cues. For a man able to read emotions in a tie, he was always surprisingly oblivious to John’s body language.

Right now that body language is screaming “youbastardhowdareyouleavemeIneededyouandyouwhatyouwatchedmecryforyouwereyouthereatyourfuckinggrave?” and about a thousand other things John still hasn’t said.

The air between them is thin, breakable. John has a sudden image of holding a Christmas bauble firmly in his fist, terrified of letting go and equally afraid of crushing it. He knows what shrapnel can do to a body.

And then Mrs Hudson walks in, rapping gently at the door, her arms full of groceries and her mouth full of mindless platitudes and really, woman, how do you get away with it? John wonders. Anyone else and Sherlock would have been at your throat.

She makes tea, because they are British and this is what they do. Their friend returns from the dead, a latter-day Lazarus, and they make him a cuppa.

John goes upstairs and punches his way through his pillowcase. He does not manage to read any sort of future at all in the fallen feathers.


End file.
